Providing Leverage
by Shikatanai
Summary: Parker thinks the baby is sort of cute, so she steals it off the porch. After all, no child deserves to be raised by an awful foster family like the Dursleys. Auntie Parker and the Leverage family will do a much better job, she's sure. One of them is sure to have the requisite baby-wrangling skills.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Obviously the years are a bit... off to make this work. We'll say it's 2005 and early in Leverage. Instead of being born in 81, Harry would've been born in 04.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Leverage, nor do I stand to profit from writing this story.

* * *

The job was simple. Vernon Dursley had in his possession a folder containing doctored documents proving their client's allegations. Lawrence Grunnings, CEO of Grunnings Drills, believed those documents to have been safely destroyed. As far as Hardison could tell, the folder had been an oversight. No one remembered that Dursley had it, and Dursley himself probably didn't know exactly what he had in his possession. The hardest part of the job had been discovering that Dursley had the damn thing. Breaking into a small family home in the middle of the suburbs was child's play; Parker had been extremely offended by Nate's suggestion that the rest of the team tag along "just in case."

The street was strangely dark as Parker slipped out of the ground floor window, file tucked safely into her backpack. She paused, crouching beneath the window as she observed her surroundings. The streetlights had all gone out, she noted, as had all the porch lights. That was odd. She'd never seen that happen before, but it was a useful trick.

"Hardison," she hissed. "Why'd you turn the streetlights off?"

"I didn't," he said, sounding surprised. She could hear him start tapping away at one of his computers. "That's weird," he muttered.

"What's weird," she asked when he failed to elaborate.

"You say the streetlights are out?"

"Yes." Had he not heard her the first time? Maybe these radio things didn't work as well as he thought they did.

"Hey!" He sounded offended. Oops, did she say that out loud?

"Yeah," he harrumphed. "Anyway, it's weird 'cause the lights aren't out, at least not according to the city. They're still registering as on and drawing normal electricity."

"Weird," said Parker, unconsciously echoing Hardison's earlier proclamation. She ignored his grumbled response and crept over to peer around the corner of the house. She immediately dropped lower when she saw the strange people clustered around the Dursleys' front porch.

They appeared to be discussing a basket, and the woman with the funny hat – Parker decided she wanted a funny hat like that – was protesting that the Dursleys were the worst sort of something. Parker was sure she agreed, though she wasn't sure what a 'Muggle' was. The Dursleys reminded her of one of her earliest foster families in the worst way. With that thought in mind, she seriously considered going back and planting explosives.

"Not okay, Parker," said her conscience, which sounded strangely like Eliot. Oh, right. Earpieces.

"But I wanna," she whined, pouting as she watched the three strange people seem to finish their argument. The old guy appeared to have won, as he leaned down to put the basket on the Dursley's front porch. Parker had to duck back around the corner of the house when the big one turned to look in her directions. She stayed there for a minute before the rumble of a motorcycle prompted her to peek around again. The three strangers were gone, leaving the basket on the doorstep.

Curiosity aroused, Parker slipped silently over to the porch and shooed away the tabby cat who was way too interested in the basket.

"It's a baby," said Parker, confused. Who left babies on doorsteps? Other than the Stork, of course.

"Babies don't come from storks," argued Eliot, sounding a bit miffed as always. "I don't always sound miffed," he said, sounding even more miffed. He growled, and Parker smirked.

The baby smirked back, gurgling up at her.

"It's frothing at the mouth," Parker hissed, poking the basket. The baby laughed and squirmed.

"Wait," said Hardison, ignoring Parker's observation, "are you saying that someone actually left a baby on a doorstep?"

"Don't you listen? Yes." Parker rolled her eyes. She watched the baby curiously as she listened to her teammates discuss the situation. It giggled when she made a face at it, so she stuck out her tongue again. It was kind of cute, once you got over the frothing mouth and inability to talk.

Teammates still arguing in her ear, she made her decision. She carefully lifted the baby out of the basket and settled it into her backpack. Checking to make sure it was more or less secure, she zipped up the backpack and slipped her arms through the straps. She stood up smoothly, careful not to jostle around too much. She remembered someone telling her once that babies were fragile.

Ten minutes and six blocks later, she threw open the back doors of the surveillance van where Hardison and Eliot were waiting.

"Gah!" said Hardison.

"Any trouble?" asked Eliot, catching her tossed backpack as Parker scrambled into the van and pulled the doors shut.

"Nope," said Parker, grinning and sitting down next to Hardison. She continued to smile as Eliot unzipped the backpack.

"Jesus Christ, Parker," snapped Eliot, glaring at her as he carefully shifted his grip on the backpack. "What the hell?"

"Huh?" Hardison spun around, curious as always.

"It likes being tossed," Parker informed them, smiling. "And it makes a funny faces when you poke it."

"Wait," Hardison's face took on an incredulous look. "Is that… Parker, did you…"

"Yes," Eliot ground out, carefully removing the wide-eyed infant from the backpack. "She did."

"It followed me home!" Parker chirped on cue. "Can we keep it?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thanks for the great response! I'm enjoying this story, too. Hopefully I do the characters justice, especially since I'm less familiar with their later story arcs (haven't seen seasons four/five of Leverage). Consider this set mid season one of Leverage.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, don't profit.

* * *

Nate stared across the kitchen table at the toddler. The toddler stared back as it chewed on a padlock Parker had cheerfully provided. It mumbled something around the metal, and a string of drool began making its way toward Eliot's supporting arm. Nate felt the band around his heart squeeze tighter. What had his team been thinking? What did they expect him to do with a baby?

"You stole a baby," said Nate, as calmly as he could manage. He sipped his doctored coffee, resisting the urge to down it in one go.

"Yup!" said Parker, entirely too happy about the whole thing. She pulled her head out of the refrigerator and held up a carrot. "How 'bout this?"

"No," said Eliot for the umpteenth time. "He needs something soft, Parker. Carrots aren't soft."

"True," she said, "but they're good for eyes." She made a few jabbing motions, sending the baby into a fit of giggles. Nate gritted his teeth, then took a longer swig of "coffee."

"Try the cupboards," said Sophie, voice neutral. "He'll be able to eat dry cereal." She was watching him, Nate could tell. It was the only reason she wasn't demanding to cuddle with the admittedly adorable toddler. He grimaced at her over his cup, but she only raised an eyebrow.

"Ah hah!" Parker grabbed a handful of cereal and offered her fist to the baby. He eyed it, dropped the padlock, and started trying to figure out how to get at the cereal inside the fist.

Nate was surprised at how happy Parker seemed. He'd never thought of Parker as the sort of person who liked babies. He'd gotten the impression that Parker didn't much care for anyone unless they were useful, and babies weren't very useful. The baby was tugging on her fingers without much success. Parker was laughing, but Nate could tell the kid was on the verge of tears.

"Put the cereal on the table," he snapped. "You're going to cause a temper tantrum."

Parker huffed, but did as she was told. The kid immediately grabbed cheerios and began eating, looking relieved. He was watching Parker warily, as though he expected her to pull another stunt. Nate couldn't blame him. Parker was resting her chin on the table and watching the baby eat with a look of fascination that was bordering on creepy.

"You're being creepy," complained Eliot. "Leave the kid alone."

"His hands are so little," she said, "and his cheeks are so big. He's like a squirrel." She put her hands by her face and did her best squirrel impression. The kid laughed, spraying the table with cheerio goop. Nate had to hide his reflexive smile behind his mug. He glanced over at Sophie, who was smirking as she pretended not to notice his reaction.

"So what are we going to do about this?" asked Sophie, steering the conversation back toward business. "I'm not interested in getting into the kidnapping business."

"We didn't kidnap him," protested Parker, "We stole him."

Nate figured he shouldn't be surprised that she considered them two different things.

"_You_ stole him," Eliot corrected, shooting her a dirty look. "And it was more like a rescue," he added, turning back toward Nate. "He was left on the _porch_ for chrissake. It started raining a few minutes after we got in the van. He would still be out there, in the rain, if Parker hadn't picked him up."

"Not to mention he was left on the _Dursleys'_ porch," Parker added, making a face. "I wouldn't wish them on anybody, especially not a baby."

"He might have toddled off," Sophie added, unable to stay out of the persuasion attempt. "Those people left him in a basket. He's at least a year and a half; not exactly an infant, you know. Talk about reckless and dangerous. Nate, we can't return him to those people."

Nate sighed, looking between them. They all looked singularly resolved. He looked down at the baby, who looked up from his cheerios as though he knew he was being watched. They stared at each other for a long minute, and Nate was the first to look away.

"Hardison!" He hollered, eyes focused on his cup as the resident hacker popped into the room. "What've you found?"

"Well, the kid didn't come with a nametag or anything, so it's been a challenge. The biggest clue was the blanket he was wrapped in," Hardison continued as he sat down at the table next to Parker. "It had little hearts that said J.P plus L.E. If I had to guess-"

"Those are probably his parents' initials," interrupted Sophie, leaning forward.

Hardison nodded and unfolded his laptop. "Exactly. So I looked into deaths of J.P.s and L.E.s, J. and L.E.s and J. and L.P.s."

"And?" prompted Eliot when Hardison paused.

"Nothing," he said. "I couldn't find anyone who died in Britain in the last week who had those initials. So I tried looking for reasons why someone would leave the kid with the Dursleys of all people."

"Relatives!" guessed Sophie.

"Bingo. Vernon's only relative is his sister Marge who," Hardison made a disgusted face, then flashed his laptop around the table to show the picture of the woman surrounded by her purebred dogs. "Has thankfully never had kids."

"Which leaves Mrs. Dursley," said Nate, getting into the investigation in spite of himself.

"Which leaves Petunia Dursley, formerly Evans. Had one sister, Lily Evans—"

"L.E." supplied Eliot, ignoring Hardison's glare at the interruption.

"Who appears to have disappeared at age eleven. No death certificate, no police reports… It's like, at age 11 she decided she didn't want to be part of the world anymore and stopped leaving any kind of digital trail. She dropped out of school and everything. Her parents died a few years later."

"That's odd," mused Sophie. "Could it have been witness protection?"

"Unlikely," Hardison shook his head. "At eleven, the whole family would've been put in protection together."

"How old would she be now?" asked Nate, looking at the baby.

"Early twenties," said Hardison. "Plenty old enough to have a boyfriend and a baby."

"Or a husband," murmured Sophie. "So J.P. must be the father. Could you find anything on him?"

"Not a thing," he said with a scowl. "I've got nothing to go on except the initials; he was probably around Lily's age, but who knows? I could research every J.P. in England and still not find him because he might not even be English!"

"What about the baby?" asked Eliot.

"No birth certificate that I could connect back to him, no announcement for a J.P./L.E. baby, nothing. We don't even know the kid's name."

Nate watched as the toddler decided he was finished with the cereal. He squirmed until Eliot put him on the floor. He bounced a few times, fist clutching Eliot's pants as he found his footing, then lowered himself to grab the dropped padlock. He toddled around the table to present the still slobbery lock to Nate, grinning.

"Up, unca!" he said, arms stretched out.

And Nate found he couldn't object.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Because y'all keep asking: I'm aware there was a letter left with Harry. In cannon he was left wrapped only in blankets on that porch. I've kindly given him a basket, but unfortunately the letter was left in said basket when Parker transferred Harry to her backpack. I assure you that the Dursley's had a bit of a fright when they opened their door that morning to an empty basket and a somewhat confused letter.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, no profit

* * *

The alarm went off at a quarter to eight on the morning of July thirteenth. As soon as it started beeping, JP slammed it off, shot out of bed, and tore down the stairs. He was already dressed for the day, and had been lying in bed for the last half hour quivering with excitement. He rounded the corner and skidded across the linoleum floor on socked feet. Settling into his usual place at the table, he beamed at his gathered uncles and aunts.

"Good morning JP," said Uncle Nate, raising an eyebrow over his morning coffee. "You're in a bit of a hurry today."

"You usually aren't dressed until at least ten o'clock during the summer," Aunt Sophie observed, sounding surprised to see him up. "I don't think it's even eight yet."

Uncle Hardison had his head pillowed on his arms, and looked as though he hadn't even gone to bed yet. He mumbled something into his elbow, but JP couldn't tell what he was saying.

"Obviously he smelled my excellent cooking," Uncle Eliot said from where he was skillfully tending a variety of pans and griddles.

"It does smell good," Aunt Sophie admitted.

JP regarded his family with disbelief. Then he narrowed his eyes. Of course they hadn't forgotten his birthday; they were just pretending. It must be the first part of their annual Birthday Con. The tradition had started when he turned five and Uncle Nate decided he was old enough to start learning aspects of the family business. Auntie Parker had celebrated by locking his presents in a safe and refusing to tell the rest of his upset family the combination. Learning to crack that safe had been the very best present of all. Now his birthday was half game half test and always something to look forward to.

"What made you decide to cook for all of us this morning?" asked Uncle Nate. JP watched him through narrowed eyes, looking for signs of lying. His uncle was very good at this, however, and JP spotted no such tells.

"It's Harlin's birthday, Nate!" protested Auntie Parker, sounding shocked and annoyed that Uncle Nate had forgotten. JP jumped slightly, not having heard his aunt enter the room.

"Good morning Auntie Parker!" He gave her his best smile. His various types of smiles, carefully learned from Aunt Sophie, were usually wasted on Auntie Parker, so he usually just gave his favorite aunt the best he could muster. "I already figured out that Uncle Nate and Aunt Sophie were pulling my leg, but thank you."

He heard Uncle Eliot snort and a muffled laugh that was probably Uncle Hardison. Reminded, he turned back around in his seat.

"What's wrong with Uncle Hardison?"

"You are seeing the consequences of procrastination," said Aunt Sophie. It had been one of her favorite lessons to illustrate since his last report card had come home with a gentle reminder that timeliness was important in school. He rolled his eyes, wishing she would just let it go.

"During a job," Uncle Nate started, which was a sure sign he was about to initiate a guilt trip disguised as a lesson, "your team is depending on you to have the work done well, on time, and for you to be in the right spot, ready to go."

"Yes Uncle Nate," said JP at the same time as Uncle Hardison lifted his head and said, "Bite me."

They shared a grin and a high five under the table as Nate shook his head, but thankfully dropped the subject. Uncle Eliot began thumping platters of food on the table, and everyone busied themselves serving and eating. As always, the food was delicious. JP made sure to thank his uncle for the extra effort to produce all his favorite breakfast foods.

Suddenly there was a tapping at the window. JP's mouth dropped open when he saw the haggard barn owl sitting in their window box. It leaned forward and tapped on the window again. JP got the feeling that the owl had flown a very long way and was desperate to come inside and rest. He was about to jump up and open the window, but Uncle Hardison's hand around his arm kept him in his seat. Instead he watched as Uncle Eliot walked over and cautiously opened the window. The owl immediately fluttered into the room and made a beeline for the table in front of JP. He laughed in delight when he saw the letter tied to its foot. It was certainly a most creative opening for a Birthday Con.

Ignoring the surprised expressions and exclamations of his family – obviously feigned, since they must all be in on the Con - JP untied the letter and offered the owl a piece of bacon. As the owl ate the treat, JP inspected the heavier than expected envelope.

"What is it, JP?" inquired Uncle Nate, sounding a bit strained. JP sent him a look that said he wasn't buying the innocent act this time, but had decided to humor them all anyways.

"It's a letter," he announced. "Addressed to a Mr. H. Potter. That's odd. Is this con going to include fake identities? I guess Harlin Potter isn't _too_ bad."

"We didn't send that," said Uncle Eliot, still standing between the window and the table. At some point he'd grabbed a frying pan from the drying rack, as though he expected the owl to attack or something.

JP laughed. "Of course you guys sent it," he said. "Who else would capture an owl and train it to fly straight to me with a letter on its leg?"

"No," said Aunt Sophie carefully; she had pushed her chair back, but was still sitting, gripping the table. "No, we didn't do that."

JP looked around the table. Each of his aunts and uncles were shaking their heads, denying any knowledge of the bird and the letter. He frowned. They seemed honestly shaken up by the incident; even Auntie Parker was staring at the owl with a slightly horrified expression.

"Huh," he said, stumped. "Weird." He looked back at the envelope. It was slightly battered, though it still seemed clean and the writing wasn't smudged at all. "Mr. H. Potter," he read again, "The U.S., North America. Well, that's not a very precise address at all," he complained.

"I wonder if the owl delivered it to the wrong person," said Uncle Hardison. He sounded rather appalled at the words coming out of his mouth. "And who the hell sends mail by _owl_? I mean, come on people. The internet has been around for _ages_."

"Maybe whoever sent the letter is infected by gremlins, like me," suggested JP, citing the running joke about why electronics were statistically proven to be more inclined to malfunction around him.

"Even _you_ send email," grumbled Uncle Hardison, dismissing JP's flimsy reasoning.

"Why are they calling you H. Potter?" asked Auntie Parker around a mouthful of eggs.

"Maybe the P in my name stands for Potter?" JP looked hopefully at Uncle Hardison. Uncle Hardison just shrugged.

"It could be," mused Aunt Sophie. "That would imply this raptor trainer either knew your father or had access to records Hardison doesn't."

"Who could have records that Uncle Hardison can't access?" JP asked, eyes wide. Aunt Sophie looked equally unsure of this possibility.

"But why _H._ Potter?" asked Uncle Eliot with a frown. "We gave you the H."

"Well," mused Uncle Nate, leaning back and staring at JP as if he'd just become a fascinating puzzle, "maybe it's coincidence. There are only 26 letters in the alphabet, after all. It's not _that_ impossible that his birth name starts with the same letter as Harlin."

"Ah!" said Aunt Sophie, sitting up suddenly. "Remember when we were trying to name him? When Hardison suggested we name him after your portrait, Nate, JP seemed to respond really well. Better than the other suggestions, at least," she said with a dirty look at Auntie Parker. JP loved that particular baby story.

"Maybe his birth name started with the same sound," Uncle Nate agreed, nodding. "That makes sense."

"And here I always thought I was just real good at naming," said Uncle Hardison with a wink for JP's benefit. JP grinned back.

The story as Uncle Hardison told it was that Auntie Parker had stolen him from a doorstep in London. (JP had promptly began copying Aunt Sophie's accent at this announcement, and refused to switch back until she declared him proficient. It was still his favorite accent of all the ones she'd taught him.) No one could agree why Auntie Parker had done this, though the consensus was "she's Parker." Whatever the reason – and her answer changed every time he asked, so he was pretty sure she didn't know either – he'd been brought back to their temporary HQ where he had apparently proceeded to be indispensably adorable.

At first they'd started calling him JP because they knew those were his father's initials, but they didn't have enough information to figure out what the letters stood for. Uncle Hardison always sounded very annoyed at this point in the story. When they'd finished the job and were ready to head back home to the States, they needed papers and a cover story for the newly acquired toddler. Uncle Hardison, being the one in charge of such things, obviously felt that the decision ultimately lay with him and therefore he had stood back to watch the others argue.

When Aunt Sophie told the story, she implied that Auntie Parker wasn't very good at choosing children's names. Uncle Hardison came right out and listed some of his favorites that she'd suggested: Spike, Rover, Vault, Toad (for his eyes, apparently), Jessica, and Archibald. There were a few dozen others, and of course the rest of them had their own suggestions. They'd even made a game of trying different names around him to see if he'd respond to any. Finally Uncle Hardison decided that enough was enough; he declared that JP's name was to be Harlin J. P. Leverage IV, grandson and heir to the fake founder of Leverage Corporation.

In her version, Aunt Sophie insisted that they all immediately loved the idea, especially since JP had turned his head the first time someone called him Harlin; he'd only ever done that for the name JP, and he only responded to JP after a few days of using it. Uncle Hardison claimed that everyone else – especially Uncle Nate – had hated his idea. There had even been a contest in which JP stood in the middle of the room and his aunts and uncles knelt in a circle around him calling for him by their preferred name. (Aunt Sophie denied participating, but Uncle Eliot showed him a video and she'd been calling for "Fitzwilliam.") After hearing the names he might've been stuck with, JP was very glad he'd chosen to toddle to Uncle Hardison. (Who admitted to having rigged the test by showing baby JP that his favorite type of cookies were hidden in his uncle's shirt pocket.) After that, his official identity had been created and he'd been Harlin J. P. Leverage the Fourth ever since.

JP shook himself from his memories as his aunts and uncles continued to discuss the possible source of the envelope. Curiosity reared its familiar head, and JP pulled out his pocketknife and carefully slit the seal. Inside was a folded piece of heavy cream paper. He pulled it out and stared, incredulous.

"Wow," he said, skimming the letter again, "you guys really had me going. Ha ha. Very funny. I'm not dumb enough to fall for this, you know. I'm _eleven_ now."

The adults stopped their conversation and turned back to JP. They looked as surprised by his reaction as he was by their attempt to prank him.

"What does it say?" Uncle Nate prompted. JP narrowed his eyes, but after a moment of stiffness, decided to humor them.

"Dear Mr. Potter," he read in as extravagant a voice as he could muster, channeling Aunt Sophie's principles of stage acting into his dramatic interpretation of the text. "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September first. We await your owl by no later than July thirty-first. Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress." In a more normal tone, he added, "Would you like me to read the supply list, too?"

JP looked up to gauge the reactions of the adults. He expected veiled amusement at their little joke, for getting him to believe in the owl in the first place. He did not expect varying degrees of blankness, surprise, and confusion.

"What the," muttered Uncle Eliot, shaking his head, "give me that." He snatched the letter from JP's unresisting hands and scanned it several times. He wordlessly handed it across JP to Uncle Hardison, who gave it the same treatment, then passed it to Uncle Nate, who tilted it so Aunt Sophie and Auntie Parker could read with him.

Finally Uncle Nate shook his head. "This wasn't us, JP. It's an awful coincidence that it came on your birthday, but I promise we wouldn't pull something like this."

That matched JP's experience, so he relaxed a bit. His uncles and aunts sometimes played jokes, but they were usually aimed at teaching JP an important lesson or skill. He nodded agreement and poked at his lukewarm breakfast with his fork.

"What should we do?" asked Aunt Sophie, who was reading the letter again. "Should we… send the owl back?" The owl immediately hunkered down on the table where it had surreptitiously finished off a plate of sausage. JP stared, wondering how the animal had known they were talking about it.

"Why not?" asked Auntie Parker with a careless shrug. "Wizard school sounds fun! Can I go too?"

"No!" said everyone.

"But I think we should try sending a letter back," Uncle Nate continued. "At the very least it would help us figure out what's going on."

They finished breakfast quickly after Uncle Nate parceled out the tasks. Uncle Hardison was supposed to see what he could dig up on this Hogwarts place. Uncle Eliot would make a few phone calls. The Aunts were to make sure everything was ready for the planned festivities, since it was still JP's eleventh birthday after all. Uncle Nate took JP upstairs to write an appropriate response together.

In the end, all Uncle Hardison could find was an ugly, underutilized website that claimed Hogwarts was a private boarding school in Scotland for "the uniquely gifted." He'd grumbled about the lack of quality, wondering why someone would bother to create a website in the late 90s and then never bother to service or update it. He'd decided it must be a real website, if only because a hacker or a con man would have done a _much_ better job. Whether or not it was actually a school of magic, however, remained to be seen. JP wondered at the fact that they were all entertaining the possibility.

Uncle Eliot came back with an odd report: he said that some of his contacts had been really nervous about his questions, and even some of his more friendly acquaintances had gotten downright hostile when questioned about magic. Eventually someone he'd worked with in Bulgaria had admitted that he knew of men who performed magic with sticks, but the informant had been quick to say how incredibly dangerous these men were. Apparently they were terrorists who were responsible for killing hundreds of innocent people throughout Europe about a decade ago.

Unfortunately, JP had already sent his letter.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall was in her office, sorting the first year response letters. She'd heard back from nearly everyone, and only a few families had declined the invitation to attend. Most purebloods and halfbloods anticipated their letter, and therefore responded immediately. Most Muggleborn students were given letters in person, to ease their inevitable assumptions of hoaxes and tricks. Over the years she'd found that the extra effort secured far more Muggleborn students.

She glanced at the student list and grimaced. There was only one reply she had yet to receive: Harry Potter's. She had sent it off with the others despite knowing that Harry Potter had never been found by his aunt and uncle and that no one had been able to determine his whereabouts since. She had peeked at the self-addressing envelopes, but his was rather vague - a phenomenon caused by moving frequently as a child.

As she thought about his location now, however, it made sense that she had yet to hear back. Owl post from Europe to the USA was made possible by a trans-Atlantic postal Floo that operated once per day between London and New York. Depending on where in the USA he lived, the owl might have a very long flight there and back. Minerva glanced at the clock and sighed. It was time to head home for the evening. Hopefully Mr. Potter's owl would arrive before the deadline – though she had a feeling Albus would be willing to stretch the rules, just this once, if necessary.

Two days passed. On the third day, as Minerva sat engrossed in her curriculum planning for the coming year, a rather droopy and exhausted owl glided into her office and stumbled to a landing on her desk. She rescued the attached letter from the spilled inkpot and vanished the mess. After a quick study of the owl's condition, she called for a house elf to carry it up to the owlry. The bird looked relieved.

Minerva turned to the letter, her heart speeding up. The envelope was carefully addressed in the Muggle style, with the addressee in the center and the return address in the upper left corner. "Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland," read the address. "H.J.P. Leverage IV, Leverage & Associates, Portland OR 97203," read the return address. Minerva swallowed. It must be him; H.J.P., living in the States. She opened the envelope with trembling hands.

"_Dear Deputy Headmistress,"_ the letter began. The writing was strangely uniform and crisp, with very particular serifs. It was much neater than any printing she had ever seen outside of a book, and she wondered how it had been achieved; did the family own their own printing press?

"_I recently received a letter through a most unusual method of post. I can only hope that this same method is successful in reaching you."_ Ah, she thought, Muggle-raised. That eased one old fear, at least, that Harry had been taken by Dark Wizards. _"Your letter indicated that I have been accepted to a school I have never heard of and certainly never applied to. While I am very flattered by your rather unsubtle recruitment attempt, I cannot make a decision without more information about your institution."_ Minerva blinked. What an unusual response. So far it sounded like he was unfamiliar with Wizarding culture, yet he wasn't making the normal Muggleborn accusations and assumptions. In fact, he appeared to believe that Hogwarts was an educational facility worth investigating.

"_In addition,"_ the letter continued, _"I am curious about the way you addressed me in your letter. In truth, my guardians and I weren't sure the letter was intended for me at all, except the owl was so insistent. I appreciate any light you can shed on this matter."_ Minerva paused and re-read those sentences several more times. Then she shook her head. If the owl had been insistent, then the writer must be Harry Potter, whether he knew it or not. "_My guardians have given me permission to travel to Scotland and learn more about your institution and whether it will be a good fit for me. Please feel free to email me at hjp" _bizarre circled 'a' symbol, "_leverage. com,__ or call my primary caregiver, Ms. Devereaux, at 503-555-5683 so that we can set up a meeting. Sincerely,"_ there was an inch of space filled with an illegible blue scribble, underneath which was a printed, _"H. J. P. Leverage IV."_

Minerva re-read the letter several times, each time making new connections and inferences, and each time feeling more puzzled about the boy who had written the letter.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Thanks for all your continued support! For those of you who have asked for more stories of Harry growing up, I will try not to disappoint! Expect some interludes, flashbacks, or tale telling later in the story. As to why the American schools haven't contacted Harry, well, maybe I just haven't told that part of the story yet!

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, no profit.

* * *

The following evening, Minerva sat in the living room of Andromeda Tonks receiving a brief lesson in how to use a telephone. It seemed fairly straightforward, though Minerva found the idea of instantaneous communication across the world to be a novel concept. The things Muggles thought of! Apparently they weren't limited by national networks like the Floo. Mrs. Tonks had also explained that "email" was another form of international instantaneous communication, for letters instead of conversations.

After the lesson, Minerva was left alone to make the call. She took a deep breath and dialed.

"Hello?" said a female voice after a few rings. Minerva jumped; she wasn't used to disembodied voices. At least a Floo call allowed you to make eye-contact while talking.

"Hello?" she repeated, scrambling to remember the phone etiquette she had just been taught. "Oh, uh, this is Professor Minerva McGonagall from Hogwarts. Is this Ms. Devereaux?"

"Good morning, Minerva!" the woman sounded quite pleased. "I wasn't sure we would hear back from you. Yes, this is Sophie Devereaux."

Minerva's eyebrows shot up. She wasn't used to people calling her by her given name without a much longer acquaintance. The woman didn't even have the excuse of being American: her accent was obviously British.

"Ms. Devereaux, I received the letter from your," she paused here for a second. What was the precise relationship between Harry and this woman? He had referred to her as a caregiver, not as an adopted mother. "Ward," she finally decided. "Although Hogwarts isn't open during the summer months, I would be honored to arrange a meeting with you and your ward to discuss Mr. Potter's magical education."

"Why isn't the school open for tours?" Devereaux asked, sounding surprised. "Surely we aren't the first prospective family to be interested in our child's education."

Minerva frowned down at her lap. Discussing the wards around Hogwarts could be a very touchy subject with Muggle families.

"No," she admitted, "you aren't. Most magical parents attended Hogwarts when they were young, and already anticipate sending their children here. However, about a quarter of the children we invite to Hogwarts come from non-magical families. We usually hand-deliver letters to these families and provide practical demonstrations. Unfortunately we cannot invite them to tour the school as there are strong wards designed to repel non-magicals. I must impress upon you the secrecy of our community. The only non-magicals who are allowed to know about the existence of magic are those directly related to a witch or wizard. Those who violate the Statute of Secrecy face severe consequences."

There was silence on the other line, then a male voice asked: "What kind of consequences?"

Minerva was surprised. She hadn't realized that more than two people could participate in a telephone call.

"It depends," she said. "If Mr. Potter were to tell his friends, for example, his friends' memories would be erased and Mr. Potter would be placed on probation. A second infraction would cost him his wand and his access to magical education. If one of his guardians were to tell other adults, everyone involved would have their memories erased." She decided not to mention that the Ministry would likely seize the opportunity to remove Harry from his Muggle home. She didn't want to scare them before they had agreed to let him come to Hogwarts.

"You can do that?" asked a new male voice. "Erase memories?" He sounded profoundly uncomfortable.

"Yes," said Minerva. "Magic can do many things, though mind magic is restricted by the Ministry."

"What's to stop you from erasing our memories and stealing JP if we agree to meet you face to face?" The man's voice was calm and curious, but Minerva thought she could detect a threat in the way he said it.

"Quite a bit," she said firmly. "First, my own morals would never allow it. Second, it is illegal to steal a child from his legal guardians. Third, erasing a child's mind like that would do irreparable damage to his magic."

"I notice that you didn't say it was illegal to erase _our_ memories," said Ms. Devereaux.

Minerva winced. "It is only legal to obliviate a Muggle who has wrongly learned of the existence of magic."

There was another pause, and Minerva got the feeling that they had no trouble at all reading between the lines. This call was not going as well as she had hoped.

"Ms. Devereaux, I can assure you that you will be quite safe meeting with me. I only mentioned memory erasure because I don't believe in lying to the families of my students, and you asked me a direct question. I also believe the rest of this conversation would go best in person."

"Very well," said Ms. Devereaux.

"I would advise a meeting in London," Minerva suggested. "There is a hidden shopping center there where you can purchase Mr. Potter's school supplies."

It only took a few minutes for them to agree on the details of the meeting. Minerva hung up feeling pleased, but also a bit worried. Harry's guardians sounded quite cautious. Hopefully she could convince them to come around the next time they spoke.

* * *

The day before they were supposed to fly to London, Uncle Hardison invited JP to spend the afternoon at his apartment. JP was shocked; ever since they had determined that he was infected by gremlins, he'd stopped getting invites to Uncle Hardison's house. It had hurt even as he had assured his uncle that there were no hard feelings.

JP waved to Aunt Sophie as she dropped him off. He ran all the way up the stairs, too excited to wait for the elevator.

"Uncle Hardison!" He gave his uncle a brief hug before pushing past him into the apartment. It was just as he remembered it: a spacious living room with an epic entertainment center and closed doors leading off into a bedroom and a work area.

"Hey kiddo," said his uncle, following him into the room. "Wanna go a few rounds of Mario Kart?"

"Yeah!" JP jumped slightly and ran for the leather couch. Uncle Hardison laughed and followed at a more sedate pace.

They spent the afternoon playing video games and eating junk food. JP loved every minute of it. He hardly ever spent time alone with Uncle Hardison. His other relatives tutored him in the family business, but Uncle Hardison had remained "just" an uncle after JP had proven himself incompatible with technology. When they did spend time together, it was always like this; all fun and no business. Uncle Hardison occasionally lost a game system when JP got too worked up, but he always took it in stride and never made JP feel bad about it.

After a few hours, Uncle Hardison put the game on pause and turned his full attention on JP. Curious, JP put down his controller and looked at his uncle.

"I thought about that letter," said Uncle Hardison. "This whole magic thing seems kinda weird, but Eliot says we should take it seriously. So I did some research and ran some experiments on you."

JP's eyebrows shot up. He hadn't noticed any experiments. Well, he'd noticed Uncle Hardison fiddling with his backpack once or twice, and someone had painted the hall phone (the only one JP was allowed to use) a rather ugly red-orange color. Honestly, though, he was used to having gps trackers slipped into his backpack along with a lunch sack, and he'd learned not to question the decoration decisions of his relatives.

"What did you find out?" JP assumed that his uncle had come to some conclusions since he was bringing it up. He could feel his excitement building up and did his best to calm down. High emotions tended to invoke the gremlins.

"Be as excited as you want," Uncle Hardison told him with a broad grin. "I think I might've figured out a way to keep the gremlins from wreaking havoc."

He held out a wrapped box, and JP tore into it without a second thought. It took him a minute to work out what exactly he was holding: a brick masquerading as a phone. Like the hall phone, it was painted reddish orange. It had a fine metal mesh covering it completely which made the screen difficult to read, but not impossible.

"Try it," urged Uncle Hardison.

Hesitantly, JP dialed HQ. He had a brief chat with Uncle Nate before hanging up. It had worked.

"Will it keep working?" asked JP, staring hopefully at the ugly device. Cell phones sometimes lasted weeks with him before they exploded or stopped recharging.

"I think so. It's coated with iron and silver, which are supposed to keep magic away, and it's surrounded by a faraday cage. If that's not good enough, well," Uncle Hardison shrugged. "I think you're doomed to be a luddite."

"I'll just make sure to recruit a good hacker for my team," he said with a shrug. "Or maybe there're magical equivalents?"

"I'll look forward to hearing all about it," said Uncle Hardison, pulling him in for a hug.

* * *

"I still don't think it's a good idea for all of us to be here," said Sophie, carefully keeping her voice low. "She did say she could mess with our memories. Wouldn't it be better to keep someone – or somethree – in reserve?"

"We've already had this argument," Nate pointedly avoided looking at her. "And we agreed that presenting a united front was more important."

"At least send Parker to the other room!" Sophie glanced over at the blonde thief who was sitting on the hotel room bed, timing JP as he raced to open a series of padlocks. She lifted her arms and cheered as JP opened the last one. Sophie smiled fondly as her nephew crowed in triumph.

"How do you think she would feel being excluded?" whispered Nate, following her glance. "She loves that boy and she has as much of a right to meet this professor as the rest of us."

Sophie had to admit that was true. If Parker were capable of being a parent, JP would be calling her mom by now. Still, it galled her to walk into a potentially dangerous situation without at least one ace up their sleeve.

Before their conversation could devolve into a full-on argument, someone knocked on the door. Sophie immediately sat back, squared her shoulders, and dropped into character. JP jumped off the bed and hurried to the door, pausing for a moment to follow Sophie's lead. She smiled proudly as the excited little boy fell away and was replaced by the calm, mature image he intended to project this afternoon.

JP opened the door and smiled politely up at the woman. She was tall and rather tense. Her bun was too tight and she was trying to hide how uncomfortable she was in her conservative pantsuit. She looked, Sophie decided, like a stereotypical schoolmarm.

"Good afternoon," said JP with his I'm-really-cute-and-it's-okay-if-you-underestimate-me smile. "You must be Ms. McGonagall." He stuck out his hand and gave her a polite, firm handshake. "I'm Harlin, but most people call me JP."

"My, what a gentleman," she said with a rather tight smile. Sophie could tell that she was falling for it, though. "It's a pleasure to see you all grown up, Mr. Potter."

JP gave her another smile as he ushered her in the door. "Please come in, ma'am. Let me introduce you to my guardians."

Sophie stood as Minerva entered and JP shut the door behind her. They had spent a long time debating how to present themselves and their relationship to JP. On the one hand, they wanted to make sure that they had an obvious legal claim on the boy. On the other hand, they didn't know how much this woman knew about his actual past. It seemed likely that she knew more than they did, since she kept referring to him as Mr. Potter. Eventually they had decided on something very close to their original legal fiction.

"Sophie Devereaux," she introduced herself, sticking out her hand. She smiled warmly as they shook hands. "This is Nathan Ford," they shook hands. "We've been raising JP since his adoptive grandfather died, per Mr. Leverage's wishes. Nate is CEO of the company JP will inherit upon his majority."

"A pleasure," said Minerva, though she didn't look entirely pleased by their claims. She looked pointedly at the other three adults in the room. "Ms. Devereaux, I thought I made it clear that this matter was to be a private affair between myself and Mr. Potter's guardians."

"As the governing board of Leverage & Associates, legally we're all Harlin's guardians," Hardison chimed in with a less-than-friendly smile. "Mr. Ford and Ms. Devereaux are simply the closest thing he has to parents. Consider us his aunts and uncles."

"And you are?" asked Minerva sternly.

"Alec Hardison." They had decided against fake names. If JP did decide to go to this school for the next seven years, it would be more effort than it was worth to maintain believable alter egos.

"Parker," said Parker, still sitting cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by popped locks. She got Sophie's pointed glance and added, "Jessica. Parker."

That wasn't the name they had originally agreed she would use, but it probably didn't matter. At least she'd come up with something normal sounding.

"Eliot Spencer," said Eliot from his guard position by the door that connected to the next room.

Minerva looked like she was trying to decide whether it would be worth the effort of objecting. Finally she sighed, apparently deciding to accept the situation for what it was.

"Very well," she said, "we may as well get started."

"Please have a seat," Nate invited, gesturing to one of the empty chairs around the table. Minerva, Nate, and Sophie all sat down around the table, with JP quickly joining them. This put Eliot directly behind their guest, with Parker in her peripheral vision and Hardison leaning against the wall behind Sophie's left shoulder.

Minerva launched into an explanation of Hogwarts. She described the curriculum, demonstrating some of the things that JP would be learning in each of his classes. It was all Sophie could do to keep her mouth from hanging open as she watched as the witch turned the lamp into an owl, made several pillows fly around the room, made JP's chair tap dance while he clung to it and laughed, conjured a glowing silver cat that seemed to radiate peace, and provided JP with a vial of yellow liquid that temporarily turned his nails pearlescent. She gave them a brief explanation of the wizarding world, explaining their government and providing a few examples of post-Hogwarts careers. It sounded both wonderful and incredibly backwards.

"Ms. McGonagall," said JP, after asking a series of school-related questions, "I've been hoping you could tell me more about my birth family. We assumed Potter must be my birth name, but Grandfather never could find my birth certificate. How did you know?"

Sophie folded her hands on the table and watched as Minerva focused her attention on JP. Her stern façade was not holding up very well to JP's onslaught of cute-innocent-and-mature.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. You look _just_ like your father, but you've got your mother's eyes. They both attended Hogwarts, you know. As fine a witch and wizard as ever graced our halls. James Potter was especially talented at Transfiguration, which is the subject I teach. He was a mischievous one, but he grew up to be Head Boy. Lily, now, she was the best witch of her decade, despite being Muggleborn."

"What's Muggleborn?" asked Sophie. She didn't like the sound of that 'despite.'

"Someone whose parents aren't magical; Muggles, we call them. I don't put any stock in the theory that purebloods are inherently better at magic, but Muggleborns _are_ at a disadvantage when they enter our world, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"I see," murmured Sophie, who still didn't like the sounds of this. She exchanged a pointed glance with Nate.

"So what am I?" asked JP with a little frown.

"You're a Muggle-raised pureblood," said Minerva, looking somewhat put-out with the direction the conversation was taking. "Though some might call you a half-blood, since your mother was Muggleborn. Your father's family, however, was one of the oldest and purest."

"Do I have any blood relatives on my father's side?"

Minerva's face tightened even more. "No immediate relatives," she answered, "though you have any number of second and third cousins. All the pureblood families are related, you see."

JP nodded slowly, then asked the question that really had them all curious: "What's my birth name?"

Minerva looked startled. "Harry James Potter," she said immediately, with a tone of voice that got Sophie's hackles up immediately. That sounded like _reverence_. No one should say an eleven year old boy's name that way.

JP made a face. "Harry?" he repeated. "Ick. I'll stick with Harlin or JP, thanks."

Sophie watched through narrowed eyes as Minerva seemed to go through a quick series of emotions: disappointment and amusement were prominent, as well as worry.

"You don't think he'll be able to go by his chosen name?" Sophie questioned sharply.

Once again Minerva's face tightened. There was something she really didn't want to tell them, and Sophie was becoming desperate to know what it was. If there was anything out there that might threaten her little boy, she wanted to know now. Her mind flashed back to Eliot's report of magical terrorism and dangerous men.

"Tell us the truth," Sophie added when it looked as though Minerva was going to choose to bite her tongue. "We've done our research. We know magic can be dangerous. If this has _anything to do with my child…_" She bit off her words, recognizing that her voice was getting a bit too shrill.

Her words had an immediate effect, though not the one she was hoping for. She was _hoping_ that her little outburst would get Minerva to hastily reassure them that JP would be completely safe at Hogwarts and that her hesitation stemmed from something else – anything else. Instead Minerva's face drained of color so fast that Sophie thought she would faint.

"What does Harlin have to do with the magical terrorist attacks from the 90s?" asked Nate, voice steely. She didn't bother to look over at him.

"_How_," gasped Minerva, knuckles white as she gripped the edges of the table. "How on _earth_ could you know?"

"Let's start with you explaining the connection, Ms. McGonagall," said Nate. "You've confirmed for us that one exists."

So Minerva told them the story of the Dark Lord and the Boy-Who-Lived.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Thank you so much to my wonderful readers, especially those of you taking the time to stop and review. I appreciate it!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Leverage. I do not own Harry Potter. I do not profit from exploiting them.

* * *

Sophie sipped her tea and continued to watch the crowd over an abandoned newspaper that she had rescued earlier that afternoon. She'd been worried that she wouldn't fit in with her approximated "wizarding clothes," but it turned out to matter less than she thought it would. Plenty of witches and wizards were entering and leaving through "the Muggle door" clothed in truly appalling fashion. Her black maxi dress and green wool cloak (Lord of the Rings replica, thank you Hardison) blended in without raising any eyebrows.

The Leaky Cauldron was busier than she would've expected from such a dingy looking bar, especially considering that there only appeared to be one bartender. He had magic, though, so maybe that was what made the difference. She'd come in just before the lunch hour and set up shop in a corner booth. She'd been studying the population and making notes on etiquette, food, clothing, and anything else that caught her eye. Earlier, many of the patrons appeared to be government workers stopping here for lunch. Now they seemed to be mostly families passing through to Diagon Alley and occasionally stopping for food and drink.

She absently added a note as she watched two young wizards meet. They were both wearing robes in the style that Sophie had decided was wizarding casual, and both were distantly accompanied by an adult. The boys both straightened when they noticed each other and gave little nods as they made eye contact, as though acknowledging the other's existence and agreeing not to challenge each other for dominance. They met halfway, walking with the carefully studied refinement of the wealthy elite: that body language, Sophie thought with amusement, seemed universal. They shook hands solemnly and bent their heads together in quiet conversation.

This behavior matched that of all the other "elitists" Sophie had observed. She'd also seen a number of witches and wizards who were trying desperately to mimic this behavior and were either tolerated or rebuffed by the true elites. Then there were those who appeared only peripherally aware of the elitists' etiquette, instead behaving like common British non-magicals. Based on what Minerva had said, Sophie was pretty sure the elites were purebloods, the wannabes were either halfbloods or Muggleborns trying to break into the culture, and the others were young Muggleborns who hadn't learned to make an effort. It also seemed like the pureblood rituals had both an upper crust version and a common man version that more closely resembled the easy, common greetings of the Muggleborns. There were a few differences when you knew what to look for, though; little details that kept the purebloods separate no matter what their social standing.

Sophie was a bit concerned that her observations would set them up to look like wannabes rather than real elites, but she was hoping that being from America would account for any mistakes. She wished that Minerva had been able to answer their questions about the American wizarding world. The only advice she'd been able to provide was to send an inquiry by owl once they got back home.

She went back to pretending to read her newspaper, despite having already read most of the articles twice. The things these wizards considered newsworthy… She glanced up toward the bar, considering ordering another pot of tea. Her eyes once again caught those of a handsome redhead who had been sitting at the bar sipping from a tankard for the last half hour. He was a little young for her, but Sophie smiled anyways. The last few times he'd caught her eye, she had done the blush-and-look-away routine. It had seemed to amuse and encourage him. This time she changed tactics and made come-hither eyes. She glanced at the empty seat across from her, then back at him. He grinned and immediately hopped off the barstool. Sophie carefully folded her newspaper and used it to hide her notes.

"Hello," he greeted as he slid into the booth. "I kept waiting for some handsome fellow to join you; I didn't think I'd be lucky enough to be him. Bill Weasley," he added, offering his hand across the table.

Sophie smiled and took his hand. "Sophie Devereaux," she said, shifting her voice into her New York Socialite accent. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Weasley." One of the first things she'd noticed was that wizards preferred to use honorifics and family names with acquaintances, which explained Minerva's sour expression at their casual use of her first name.

"Oh, please call me Bill," he offered, upping his smile a few more watts. Sophie gave a coy smile in return, pleased that she knew the subtext of the exchange.

"Bill," she tasted the name, making a show of enjoying it; he looked interested. Sophie loved this game. "And I'm Sophie, of course."

"May I ask where you're from, Sophie? I could've sworn I knew all the gorgeous young witches in Britain."

"Maybe I'm not a young witch," she said with a quirked eyebrow. He made the appropriate sounds for having understood her comment to be about her age, not her magic. She smiled. "Actually, I'm American."

"What brings you to Great Britain?" he asked, sounding surprised. She wondered what made being an American surprising. She was being careful with her accent, so maybe something about American wizards?

"My ward was invited to attend Hogwarts, and we're here to consider his options." She knew that it was risky to bring up the subject of children during a flirtatious encounter, but trying to romance a much younger man wasn't really part of her plan right now anyways. He looked like he was a recent graduate, so he was potentially a good source of information. Besides, he didn't seem all that invested in the flirtation; it was a game, an enjoyable way for both of them to pass the time.

She was rewarded for her honesty with a bright smile and a slight shift in posture that meant the game was changing from a hook-up to a real conversation.

"Hogwarts is an excellent school," Bill enthused. "It's the best wizarding school in Europe in terms of the depth and breadth of knowledge taught. Admittedly Beauxbatons offers a greater number of elective options, and Durmstrang teaches more offensive magic, but Hogwarts is definitely the best quality. Gringotts prefers to hire Hogwarts graduates, and I've heard the same is true of other international companies."

Sophie's eyebrows went up. Minerva had said that Hogwarts was the best, but Sophie had attributed it to her role as recruiter. To have it seconded and expanded on by a second party lent a little more weight to the claims. She wondered how it would stack up against American magical education – if America even had magical education. She wondered again why they hadn't made some attempt to contact them regarding JP.

"Huh. We hadn't even considered the other European schools. We're only entertaining the idea of Hogwarts because Harlin's parents went there. Personally I'm not sure I want him so far away, especially considering the unrest a decade ago."

Bill's expression darkened slightly at the mention of unrest, but he declined to rise to her bait.

"Boarding school is hard," he agreed. "I was homesick for months during my first year. At least the international Floo isn't all that expensive. He'd be able to come home for the holidays, same as any other student."

"I'm more worried about day-to-day communication," she groused. "Owls take at least a week and a half to get to us from Hogwarts."

Bill shrugged. "My mum tried to write me once a week, but with my siblings all still home, they quickly slowed down to once every few months. Honestly, I didn't miss them."

"Yes," she agreed, "but what about in emergencies? If something happened to Harlin while he was away, or he needed help, I wouldn't know in time to do anything."

"His head of house would find a way to let you know quickly," he assured her. "Besides, Hogwarts has an excellent healer. Very few accidents or illnesses require more than a quick trip to the infirmary."

They continued to chat about the hardships and benefits of boarding school, with Sophie carefully avoiding discussing her own education and Bill filling the gaps with exciting stories and tips to pass along to JP. Their conversation then morphed into a discussion about jobs and families. She'd figured out quickly that Bill was one of the non-wealthy purebloods based on his mannerisms and speech patterns. She made mental notes of the things he did and the way he spoke: it would help JP later.

After a pleasant half hour, Bill had to head back to work. Sophie was sad to see him go. His company was pleasant and he was a font of useful information. As he said goodbye, she wondered what the wizarding equivalent of exchanging numbers would be. He answered her silent question by encouraging her to owl him or Floo call him at "Bright Corner."

Sophie spent another hour making notes and studying the population before she decided to clear out for the dinner crowd. She'd monopolized the booth for long enough that the bartender was starting to give her dirty looks despite the fact that she'd been continually spending the strange silver and bronze coins that Parker had "liberated" on the street out front. It had been a productive afternoon, and it was time to retreat and discuss her discoveries.

* * *

JP was nearly bouncing as they got ready for Diagon Alley. He had studied hard last night, carefully discussing Aunt Sophie's notes with her in order to get a better idea of how he ought to behave. Now he felt ready to brave wizarding society as a fledgling wizard. He'd dressed carefully in black slacks and a white button down shirt underneath a midnight blue robe that Uncle Hardison had made last night based on Aunt Sophie's sketches.

"Well," said Aunt Sophie over clasped hands, "don't you look wizardly. Take a spin for us, then."

He obligingly spun around so that she could inspect the whole affect. She murmured approvingly as she absently came closer to straighten his collar.

"Aaaand the finishing touch!" she said, holding her hand out toward Uncle Hardison. "Sit down JP." She took the disguise kit and began the painstaking process of covering his scar. He tried his hardest not to fiddle; he didn't particularly want to be recognized today either. Celebrity had its uses, but generally not outside a well planned con.

Twenty minutes later they were inside the Leaky Cauldron, waiting to meet a Mr. Hagrid who would be escorting them to the bank. Aunt Sophie had decreed that only she and Uncle Eliot would come on this trip, over the protests of the others. There had been a rather heated argument that JP had only been peripherally aware of. He knew Uncle Nate wanted to be here, but Aunt Sophie wanted to keep it down to two adults, and Uncle Eliot would be the most useful if anything… went wrong.

JP was pretty tickled with the arrangement, since Uncle Eliot looked wonderfully disgruntled in his robe. (Uncle Hardison had originally threatened to make it a nice lurid green, but Aunt Sophie had intervened before any significant hurting could occur.) It had taken everyone's combined wheedling before Uncle Eliot had caved and "put the damn thing on."

They didn't have long to wait. Precisely on time, the fire flared and the largest man JP had ever seen came out of the fireplace. He had bushy, bristling hair set off with an affable smile as he greeted the bartender with a booming voice.

"When Ms. McGonagall said he was big," JP whispered to Uncle Eliot, "I didn't think she meant _that_ big!"

"It's okay kid," said Uncle Eliot, clapping him on the back. "I could take him."

"Mr. Hagrid I presume," said Aunt Sophie, stepping forward. JP loved watching her transform into a character. It used to creep him out, but now it just impressed him how effortless it was for her.

"Ah, Ms. Devereaux!" Hagrid held out a hand the size of Aunt Sophie's head, and she delicately placed her hand in his. He looked like he was being exceedingly careful as he gave her hand a gentle shake. "And you must be young Har-"

"Harlin," JP hurried to correct. "But I prefer to go by JP." Honestly he didn't care all that much, but he had a feeling there would be fewer slip-ups if the giant was calling him by something completely unlike his birth name. "It's nice to meet you Mr. Hagrid."

Pleasantries concluded, the giant led them through the door to the alley. He used his pink umbrella ("a crime against good taste," hissed Aunt Sophie) to tap on a brick to make the wall slide away.

It took nearly a minute before JP could shake off his awe, close his mouth, and get back into character. When he glanced over, he was pleased to see that Uncle Eliot had been just as impressed, though it looked like his uncle had already started checking the new territory out for danger. Aunt Sophie, of course, looked as though she saw such things every day.

The walk to the bank was interesting but uneventful. JP managed to keep his staring down to the level of mildly curious rather than shocked and stunned. Aunt Sophie had placed a reassuring hand on his back, which was more helpful than he was willing to admit.

The bank itself was a huge marble building guarded by, of all things, _goblins_. Uncle Eliot, of course, dutifully sized them up. Later he would report that he'd be cautious of testing their abilities. Those teeth were awfully sharp, and those fingers were awfully long.

Inside, Hagrid led them straight up to one of the tellers and gave a vault number and a very sketchy withdrawal description. He then attempted to whisper that Harry Potter also wanted to visit his vault. JP winced.

Luckily none of the wizards were close enough to hear, and all the goblin demanded was the key to the vault. Why Hagrid had his vault key, JP wasn't entirely sure.

The ride to the vaults was amazing. Not as good as a rollercoaster, maybe, but still fun. They paused briefly for Hagrid to scoop up a tiny paper wrapped parcel and to hear the goblin's explain some of the vault safety features. Aunt Sophie had winced and mumbled something about being thankful Auntie Parker wasn't there to take the warning as a challenge. When they reached his vault, JP had been surprised. He'd been told that his parents had set up a trust fund for him, but he was used to thinking of money in terms of numbers and paper.

He'd never considered that his trust fund might be huge piles of gold.

They made a withdrawal and headed back to the surface. Aunt Sophie had to take a few minutes to straighten herself and attempt to straighten JP. They waved goodbye to Hagrid, thanking him for his help. After all, nice though the giant was, he did rather spoil their image. And then it was finally time to explore the alley.


End file.
